


i look into your eyes and the seas open up to me.

by librium



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 07:56:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/librium/pseuds/librium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, thinking about Peter makes him calm down. The way Peter always talks to him pretending they’re equals, but nothing about them is similar. Peter is shorter, his lips are thinner, his hair is darker and longer. He smiles easily. He’s poor, while Roman could swim in a pool of money. Peter is a gypsy, with a real mother, a family, a history, a ground – even though he’s a runaway. Roman doesn’t know who he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i look into your eyes and the seas open up to me.

**Author's Note:**

> This is settled sometime after the discovery of the second body - probably right after Peter's visit to Roman's house. I don't know either. 
> 
> (also, this is unbeta-d, and english isn't my first language. i'm so sorry)
> 
> Title from Fistful of Love by Antony and the Johnsons.

Roman needs some relief.

It’s nothing drink could help, or coke could help, or even blood could help. It’s an urge, an itch inside his skin, and his constant ways of escaping could do nothing to this, so much deeper inside him. It’s unbearable to keep living in the damned mansion, but he knows there’s nowhere to go. He’s a fucking Godfrey. His fate is to run the Family Empire, whatever hell that means. Sometimes, he wishes he could be born again, in an ordinary family, in Hemlock Grove or everywhere else in the world, but without the constant vigil of every single person in the damned city. Sometimes he thinks his Mother even has cameras, or private detectives, or bodyguards following him. But, well. Maybe she doesn’t. Because if she did, he’s sure he’d be in a locked cage.

Maybe, with his werewolf friend.

Peter.

Sometimes, thinking about Peter makes him calm down. The way Peter always talks to him pretending they’re equals, but nothing about them is similar. Peter is shorter, his lips are thinner, his hair is darker and longer. He smiles easily. He’s poor, while Roman could swim in a pool of money. Peter is a gypsy, with a real mother, a family, a history, a ground – even though he’s a runaway. Roman doesn’t know who he is.

Once (or maybe twice, or three or four or five times) Roman couldn’t help but touch Peter, kiss Peter, feel him close to his body, hands running through his clothes, his skin, his hair. His touch was never denied. They also never talked about this. Sometimes Roman only needs to be around him, but now, thinking about this pressure inside his chest, he knows where he needs to be, what he needs to do.

He needs to lose control. He knows who could make him breathe.

Only grabbing a jacket, Roman almost runs into his car, and goes to the trailer. He isn’t even sure if Peter is there, or if his mother is with him, and he doesn’t care at all. If he can’t make what he wants as soon as he reaches Peter, well, fuck, he’ll do it as soon as he can. 

Roman jumped off the car and skipped most of the stairs on the way to the trailer. Slamming the door open, he spotted Peter on the couch, rolling a joint, and the boy stood in a jump.

“Goddamn it, fuck, Godfrey!”

Sweating in anticipation, although he always denied to himself how his stomach jumped upside down in Peter’s presence, the physical need consumed his body and his mind couldn’t work properly.

“Is Lynda home?”

“The fuck?”

“Your mother, shit! She’s fucking here?”

“Fuck, no! What do you—“

The rest was suppressed with Roman’s long and fast steps, then a grip in the back of Peter’s neck, and their mouths clasping together. His other hand moved to firmly grab the lower back of the boy, joining their bodies, while the hand behind Peter’s neck started slowly moving above, sweetly messing with his hair, in a complete different way his lips aggressively covered Peter’s, his teeth searching for a bite, and Peter just let him take what he wanted. As always.

Listening a surprised noise whimpered in the brief moments each other’s mouths parted to gain some air, Roman realized Peter didn’t knew what to do with his hands, and, needing more contact, he guided both of the smaller hands to his hips. Peter gripped hard, and started exploring the sides of Roman’s tick lips with his tongue. He dared to open his eyes – Roman’s face was filled with lust, his cheeks red, but a frown was still in his forehead, the whatever reason Roman needed this written on his face, Peter thought. 

“Hey” he dared to say quietly, like talking to a wild animal “Hey. What’s wrong?” Roman’s eyes opened, and they were dark, lost, trying to find his reflection deep inside Peter’s ones. “Wanna talk?” his voice still quiet, his hands starting to loosen the grip on Roman’s body. He couldn’t let him go. Ever. Together for only a couple of minutes, Roman felt like half of the pressure inside his chest had already gone. No one could ever make him feel like Peter did. It was hard to admit to himself, but he could work on it. Another time.

“No. Just…” He held on Peter’s wrists again “don’t let me.”

“Okay” was the answer. “I’m here. Not going anywhere.”

Roman closed his eyes again, and let himself drown on the sensation of Peter’s body against him. The gypsy carefully sat him on the couch he was moments before, then settled on his lap, cupping Roman’s face with his both hands, then kissed him. Sweetly, understanding, giving himself to the needs he didn’t even know which was.


End file.
